29This City Never Sleeps
Lisp.
One.
Oh, don't go losing sleep
Scared of shadows.
- Vance Joy.
It's a normal night like any other when she first sees him.
She's walking down the alleyway a little after midnight, her stride strong and confident. The sky may have darkened past the bruised purple tint of the day's end, but she has her wits about her, so what is there to be worried about? Her papa would completely disagree with what she's doing – good. She doesn't want his approval. She doesn't want anyone's. Who in Death City has the right to tell her, Maka Albarn, when it's time to lock her doors and windows and go inside for the night?
It's all just lies and rumours anyway, right? None of it is actually true. A little pinch of folklore, a dash of mystery and one good ghost story, and the civilians in her town are scared out of their wits. It's been like this since she can remember – the constant paranoia about something as silly and trivial as the dark.
"There's something living in it, Maka." Her friends used to tell her, back when they were all young and foolish. "The dark moves. There are things out there, scary things. We lock our doors and they stay out. But don't leave them open, Maka! Don't go outside! Or you know what will happen? They'll eat you up!"
Yes, she's heard the stories, Maka thinks as she steps over an overturned trash can. She knows what people think about the night. They're superstitious and scared, and it's pathetic. All of this fear, this tight security and cold disapproval of the late hours – all because of one little myth wrapped in a thin blanket of half-truths.
Maka is almost at her apartment at this point, a slight spring in her step. Nobody says anything to her; she passes no-one on the street. Of course – everyone is asleep for the night, safe in their beds. They're really missing out, because Death City is beautiful at night. The moon is always a sickle (a source for more rumours) and some nights it almost appears to be leering down at the town, as if taunting it over its silly little frights. But Maka Albarn isn't like the other people in Death City. She doesn't feel the moon's contemptuous grin on her back. She likes to explore new things; things that her books can describe but can't quite explain, and when better to adventure around than at night, when nobody is there to stop you?
There is the colourful building in which she lives. With a grin – I've survived the night once again, lucky me – she reaches into the pocket of her dark tailed jacket, groping around in the material to find her keys. She can just hear the jangle that betrays the reward of her quest when she sees it.
It's just a flicker, a little movement in the shadows that could easily be passed off as a trick of the light. Except there is no light apart from the glow of the moon. No clouds are rolling over the sky tonight. Maka starts, staring over at the spot for a second. It had been right behind that disused streetlamp, a flash of brightness, of white. The post itself remains still and dormant under her scrutiny – the lamps are never lit because nobody is out to need them. She rubs her eyes for a moment, ignoring the hair that stands up on the back of her neck. It's almost one in the morning on a Saturday, and she'd had an exam on Friday. It's only natural that she's tired.
I must be seeing things, she decides firmly, shaking her head slightly as if that will clear the weird image away. But she can't get over the niggling feeling that she hadn't imagined it, that there had been something behind the post. But what? An animal, maybe? It could have been a bird, but it seems too late for birds to be stirring. Even the wildlife is scared of the dark in this town.
Maka rubs her eyes again angrily, slapping herself on the cheek and muttering, "I'm letting all of the stupid stories get to me. There's nothing there. I'm not afraid of the dark."
She firmly pushes her key into the door lock, not turning around even once. If she did, she might see more, and she doesn't want to psych herself out of her little night-time adventures just because her eyes don't want to work.
At least, that's what she tells herself. But as she's about to enter the apartment complex, she can't help it. Something in her brain is telling her to turn, and her feet seem only too willing to comply. Her heart is the only thing fighting, and she knows that it is because she can't concentrate over the hammering thumps it's giving. She's trembling a little, but convinces herself that it's just because it's cold out here. And really, it is – in the middle of the Nevada desert at night, a blanket never goes spare. She makes sure her eyes are shut while she spins, not allowing herself to think twice about what might be out there, and then she's forcing her lids open - !
Nothing.
She's filled with a weird mix of elation and disappointment at the sight before her. The street is empty. The cobblestones on the footpath do not stir with creeping shadows. Nothing sinister leaps out at her from the bushes situated on the opposite side of the road. There are no monsters slinking towards her. And that's a good thing, right? Hell yes it is; this means that she's still sane, she's not becoming another paranoid inhabitant of Death City. She doesn't believe in the demons, and they aren't there. But another part of her, the adventurous part, is slightly crestfallen. If there had just been something abnormal, something interesting to see, maybe she could find something exciting. All of her wanderings in the midnight hours have been used to not only further her knowledge on the City's nooks and crannies – she's been trying to find something. Something to explain the rumours, the whispers, the superstitions. Why is everyone so scared when there's clearly nothing there? If she could just find a material presence, and then prove to the city's dwellers that it wasn't some plaguing demon, could they claim back the night? Would they stop being such cowards? She doesn't know, but she wants to find out. And at the rate she's going, she might not ever find it. So she feels like the empty street is a letdown, somehow.
She's just turned back around when it happens. It's even quicker than last time, and leaves her with no time to catch her breath or deliberate on whether she should look or not. In one fluid movement, with no flickering or hesitation, the streetlamp she'd been scrutinising turns on.
Maka gasps, her eyes glued to the post. Warm, golden light seeps from it and the rust and abandonment of its neglected years is no longer visible. It looks as wonderfully new as possible and glows healthily, lighting up a small section of street. Although it really isn't that bright, Maka is so used to the sombre darkness of the night that this sudden addition to the moon's coverage is overwhelming to her eyes. She closes her lids for a good three seconds, holding her breath, and then flicks them back open.
The light is still on. She's not imagining it. She even pinches herself to make sure.
Why is the light on? Who could have turned it on in the short amount of time that she hadn't been looking? Each lamppost had to be manually turned on – she remembers asking her Papa about it once, back when things were different and they were still a 'family.' There's no way anything could have hit the switch, because it was two seconds, she swears . . .
Besides, there had been no hesitation in the illumination. One moment, it had been dark, the next it had been light. Streetlamps usually took a few seconds to power up as the electricity flowed through the circuits, like any other high-power bulb. So what was going on here? She clutches the long sleeves of her jacket in her small hands, her gaze unable to leave the light. It draws her to it like a moth, and she has to blink once her eyes begin to water. She needs to look away and go inside – if something did turn that light on, it will still be out here, right?
But alas, as far as she can tell, it's just her and the light. Maybe the switch was shorting? Maka reassures herself that there's a mundane reason behind the lighting issue; most likely the fact that she's so tired.
Her retinas are still stinging slightly when a great gust of wind blows through the bushes. She inhales sharply, fear kicking in like a swift blow to her stomach. The night is clear. The light and the wind are too much for her. She's been so excited to find something out of the ordinary, and now that it's here she's trembling with fright. Pathetic, she scolds herself, but she's still far too eager to push open the door to the apartment complex and escape the night's oddities. Once the heavy wooden door shuts behind her, she sags slightly, letting her breath catch up. She hadn't even realised she'd been holding it. How weak. Was she really that nervous in those few seconds? One electrical wiring short and she's out for the count.
Maka climbs the stairs wearily, her hand tight on the rail to stop her slumping. Sure, it's a weekend and that was why she's out wandering, but she really shouldn't have stayed out so late. She'll fall asleep before she even reaches the right floor at this rate. Then again, her nerves are still jittery. It's going to be a long night of peeking out of the curtains and tightening my fists on the bedcovers, she thinks drily.
There it is. Number 42. She slots the wrong key into the lock twice and jumps when the floor gives a creak under her weight, chastising herself immediately afterwards. What is she, five? Finally the door swings open and Maka sighs in relief, letting her shoulder-bag drop on the ground as she toes it closed once more. Her kitchenette light is still on, bathing the apartment in a warm and healthy glow. With a sigh of relief she kicks off her shoes and carries them into her room. While rifling through her drawers for pyjamas, an idea occurs to her. She should check whether the street is still illuminated by that single streetlamp. She doesn't want to look, but she knows she should. The only way to get herself to calm down will be to make sure she's just imagining things. Maka decides resolutely that she'll have a hot shower, get changed and then have a look once she's feeling more rational and less jumpy.
One blissful ten-minute shower later, she's towelling off her hair and yawning. Sleep is about ready to overcome her, and the closer her digital clock ticks towards two a.m., the less surprised she is. She really needs to rest; it's just a good thing she isn't rostered on for her part-time job at the bookstore tomorrow. She loves the building to pieces – literally, it's that old – but after tonight she shudders at the concept of attending work. Pulling almost 'all-nighters' after school followed by scouting around Death City's parks after dark doesn't exactly set her up for stock-take duties. All she really wants to do right now is slip under the warm sheets of her bed and let her head hit the pillow.
There are those incessant nagging voices in her brain, though, telling her to look, LOOK! She can't help it. Maka sighs irritably and, very slowly and cautiously, twitches aside the curtain in her room; making sure to stay out of sight should there be any horrible paranormal anomaly on the street below.
The first thing she notices is the lamp. It's out.
The roads are dark and all Maka can see are the light reflections of litter from the moon's sneering luminescence. She blinks hard, and everything stays the same. Dark and still. Nothing is unsettling or wrong, just its usual boring self.
Until the lamp jumps to light again. It's like it was waiting for her the whole time, because it flashes while her eyes are trained on it. Only for a few seconds this time, not staying on like it did before. This solidifies the theory of faulty wiring, but Maka feels her skin crawl with sudden goosebumps. It had flicked on for her. Who else would it be lighting up the street for, because who else was awake and looking at quarter-to-two?
It jumps to life and out once more, and she holds her breath, her nose pressed against the window and all thoughts of keeping hidden completely banished from her mind.
On. Off.
Wait. No. Impossible.
Her already-held breath catches in her throat and then her hands fall off of the window. She sits in paralysis, staring down at the footpath underneath the lamp with wide eyes, her mouth forming a silent pink 'O.' There's no way. How could – she would have seen - !
There's a man standing there. Right under the patch of light cast by the post. Maka takes in the sight of him, trembling suddenly for reasons unknown. He'd just appeared there, in the space of two seconds while light was playing around. It is on properly now, showing him plainly to her.
A tall yet youthful-looking man, probably her age or a little older, is leaning against the post with his hands in his pockets. He has on a white jacket over a white shirt, and she can see a tie hanging loosely from his neck. He appears to be wearing black skinny jeans as well as pale sneakers. Overall, a very mundane outfit. But . . . his hair. It is bright white and in a complete state of disarray. Yet it looks organised, as if the spikes are purposefully placed. Maka has never seen hair like this before. Sure, she's seen bleached unhealthy locks in fashion magazines – not hers, of course, but ones in the library – and on the television, but not in real life. This hair looks so real and soft and regular, but it's far too snowy. Her heart stammers at this odd boy's appearance. What the Hell is he doing out under that light at this time of night? She goes to make a move, do something, but she can't. She's frozen.
And then the boy looks up. Straight up to her window. Straight up at her. She catches a view of his eyes, and then the goosebumps are standing up even further than before and she's almost shivering. He seems to be staring directly at her, as if he can see exactly what she looks like despite being on the sixth floor. And that's not even including the ground level. Maka doesn't know whether to move away to stop his staring, or if moving will make him see her if he hasn't already. She can feel her pulse in her hands and her lower lip is trembling. This silent stranger – is he . . . one of them? One of the legends, the scary stories she's been told since childhood? Are they . . .
Could it be real?
He appears to be grinning now, and she gulps, trying not to hyperventilate. His teeth. Oh God. It may be a trick of the light, but from where she is, it appears that his teeth are sharp. She doesn't know how she could possibly see that detail from the distance she is, but maybe adrenaline is kicking in. She needs to get away now, before he sees her, before he comes up here and tries to eat her heart, or worse, her soul - !
And as Maka stares down at him, her eyes wide, he seems to almost laugh. A slim-fingered right hand lifts from his side and he . . . waves. A lazy little motion of his wrist, giving her a slight wave with that razor-sharp grin. She gasps, her whole body going still.
And then the light flickers off again for a second.
When it turns back on, he is no longer there.
Maka does not sleep at all that night.
A/N: I don't own Soul Eater or Vance Joy's 'Emmylou.'
